


I Am the Vorta; You Will Take Care of Me.

by stayneurotic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Dominant Masochism, Dubious Consent, F/M, Light Sadism, Mild Blood, Power Imbalance, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayneurotic/pseuds/stayneurotic
Summary: When your ship falls in battle against a Jem’Hadar fighter, you fully expect to die alongside it. The Vorta in charge has other plans for you, however – mercifully, he spares your life. But that gift comes at a price.
Relationships: Keevan/Female Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

You were beginning to lose track of the days.

The Jem’Hadar worked in longer shifts than humans did, so the duration of their watch outside your holding cell did little to indicate the passage of time. Had it been...five days, perhaps? A week? Without the guidance of any diurnal ship lighting (the Jem’Hadar had no need of such things, of course), and especially without a consistent schedule to your paltry meals, your circadian rhythm had begun to deteriorate. You found yourself drifting off to sleep in fitful, nightmarish bursts, only to wake with a startle – remember the gravity of your situation with fresh dread – and doze off again minutes later, from boredom and exhaustion alike.

You’d long ago given up the thought of escape. Even forgetting the forcefield separating you from the rest of the ship, an entire squadron of Jem’Hadar warriors stood between you and freedom. Well, them, and the Vorta who led them.

You’d only seen him for the briefest of moments. It had been a quick battle – shamefully quick. Your crew did their best, but Dominion warships are formidable foes even to the biggest Federation ships, let alone your scrappy Constellation-class cruiser. You’d seen several of your crewmen slipping into escape pods alongside you before the ship exploded, but when the Dominion ship locked onto your lifesign and transported you aboard, the only other faces you saw were those of your enemies.

One – the leader, slender and tall with eyes of amethyst – stepped forward, bearing down on you with such a look of disdain you felt like dying right then and there. His lips curled into a sneer; his hooded eyes bore into yours, measuring. And then, after a moment:

“Lock her up. I’ll deal with her later.”

And so they whisked you away and threw you into this cell to rot. You hadn’t even the fortune of knowing your captor’s name.

You wonder, now, sitting with your back to the cell wall, if you’ll even get to see the Vorta again before you waste away in here. Surely he’d be the one to conduct your interrogation; a lieutenant snatched off an outdated ship on a transport mission isn’t a valuable enough target to bring back to headquarters for debriefing. But you’ve been an unwilling passenger an entire week here (you think) and no one has asked you so much as a single question. In fact, barring the Jem’Hadars’ curt orders, no one has said a word to you.

Perhaps the Vorta just wanted to break you before he questioned you. Or, perhaps he had simply forgotten you.

The soft hiss of the doors sliding open interrupts your gloomy train of thought. _It’s too early for the changing of the guard_ , you think. _Isn’t it?_

The soldier, however, does not relieve his colleague. Instead, he approaches the forcefield.

“Up,” he barks.

It takes you a moment to register his command. But, shakily, you stand. The Jem’Hadar motions to his officer to lower the forcefield and turns back to you as it fizzles out.

“With me.”

You’re somewhat surprised they allow you to follow of your own accord (albeit with the second guard breathing down your neck) rather than grabbing you by the arms and dragging you out. It means they don’t consider you much of a threat – a notion that would offend you if it weren’t true. Still, you’re a touch grateful.

You try to take careful note of the path you take, as though it will come in handy later, but your fatigue dulls your wit. By the time you reach your destination you’ve lost track of where you are – an infuriating thought as the lift doors slide open to reveal the bridge.

The various Jem’Hadar manning the consoles pay you no mind. But the Vorta, turning from his post, seems pleased by your presence.

“Ah,” he intonates, and his voice is soft, sibilant. “The prisoner. Thank you.”

The soldiers guarding you step aside. The commander steps down from his platform and approaches you, studies you head to toe through his glowing eyepiece – and smirks.

You wonder what he sees that amuses him so.

“Lieutenant...Y/N, was it?” he asks.

You aren’t surprised he was able to gain access to your personal records, but it does unsettle you. You wonder what else he knows.

“...That’s correct,” you try, but the words come out hoarse and dry. You haven’t used your voice in days. It doesn’t seem to phase the Vorta, however, who can hear your whisper just fine from across the room. In two swift strides – before you can react – he closes the distance between you. You shrink away reflexively as his hand darts up to grab your chin; he yanks your head up to look at him and studies your still-bruised and sunken face, turning it this way and that. You move with his grip, too tired and too frightened to fight it. Fearful, you search his expression, trying desperately to read it – to see what he sees – but you find nothing.

Your pulse races noticeably under the icy fingers at your jaw. His piercing gaze locks onto yours and for a moment you can’t seem to breathe.

“Yes…” he mutters, mostly to himself. Then, louder, to his underlings: “Yes. She’ll do nicely.”

He releases you, and in moments the Jem’Hadar have ushered you away, back into the waiting turbolift. You struggle to see back over your shoulder – and you catch a glimpse of the Vorta turning uncaringly away, back to his command, all business once more.

You feel a cold dread in the pit of your stomach as the doors slide shut.

The lift lets you out into a very different corridor than the one from which you’d entered. The lighting is subdued here; thick insulation muffles the ambient sounds of the ship; the walls are barren of the ductwork and computer panels present in the lower decks. The soldiers escort you to a door some thirty meters down a branching hallway and type an access code into the panel. The door slides open, revealing what appear to be average, if sparsely decorated, quarters. You hesitate.

“In,” insists the superior Jem’Hadar, and glancing at him with uncertainty, you take a tentative step inside.

The two of them take up their post in the hallway at either side of the door just before it closes – and locks with an audible click.

You take a moment to observe your new surroundings. Thin grey carpet lines the open expanse of floor before you; sleek walls, sliced by vertical beams of lavender light, reflect the shifting glimmer of the stars moving along at warp speed just outside the window which serves as the room’s fourth wall. A small black table and set of two chairs sit beside a replicator, and an elegant array of amethyst-upholstered furniture comprises a living room by the window.

You continue on into the attached room, whose door has been removed, you note with interest. There really isn’t much here – a bed in the center of the wall with glass nightstands on either side, as well as a small closet – but the sight of the bed, visibly plush and lined with soft, ebony sheets, almost has you collapsing the moment you lay eyes on it. Noticing the door to the ensuite, however, you put the impulse aside.

It’s been a week since you’ve had a sonic shower.

* * *

It doesn’t take you long to settle in. Whatever kind of mind-game the Vorta was playing with you, you were going to make damn sure you took advantage of it while it lasted. The shower is long, warm and wondrous; the replicator, although restricted to a limited menu, provides as much food as you ask for. You even find several garments waiting in the closet to replace your burnt and battle-scarred uniform, and you select from them a satin nightgown to wear to sleep. Clean and well-fed, you sink into the bed, feeling very strange.

The Dominion is not known for its kindness; there has to be a reason the Vorta ordered you transferred into these accommodations, and it isn’t likely to be a good one. You don’t have much time to ponder his motives, however, before you slip into a heavy and blissful slumber.

* * *

The gruff voices of the Jem’Hadar soldiers startle you out of your sleep.

“Up!” growls one of the two now standing suddenly at the foot of your bed. Heart pounding, you struggle to take in your surroundings as the details of last night come trickling back in. This Jem’Hadar is not as patient as the last ones were – running low on White, perhaps – and at your bleary-eyed hesitation he growls and yanks you up by your arm, dragging you out.

“Now hold on–” you start to protest, but as you do he throws you effortlessly to the floor in a show of dominance. Your knee takes the brunt of the fall. You scramble to upright yourself and stare up at the soldier with wide eyes, awaiting another blow – but no further violence comes. He simply gazes down at you with some mixture of disgust and pity as his Second looks on.

“Do not,” he warns, low enough only for you to hear, “make this more difficult than it has to be.”

Your confusion only grows. But as you try to make sense of this piece of advice, the First retakes you by the arm and leads you out of the comfort of the room and back into the habitat ring. Well, you admit it isn’t much of a ring – there are only a handful of rooms here, much less than would accommodate a crew for a ship this size. Vorta-and-guest-use only, you reason. _Does that make me a guest?_

The Jem’Hadar deliver you to a set of doors at the very end of the main hall and activate the door-chime. After a brief moment, a voice rings out clearly from within.

“Enter.”

The doors part. Across the room, staring you down, the Vorta waits with hands clasped behind his back.

Fear freezes you in place – at least until you feel the muzzle of the Jem’Hadar’s rifle press into your back. Stumbling forward, you cross the threshold and the doors close behind you.

You look up into the cold and distant eyes of your captor.

Silence, thick and heavy, hangs in the air for a few lingering moments. You dare not move until the Vorta takes a sauntering step towards you, at which point you back into the door instinctively. He regards this with amusement.

“There’s nowhere to run, I’m afraid,” he consoles, and sarcasm oozes, venomous, from every word. “You could try hiding, but I don’t think it will get you very far.”

You want to search around, find the closest weapon in reach and stick it into his throat. But as the Vorta ambles up to you, you find it impossible to rip your gaze away from his. He stops a mere few inches in front of you, and flattened against the door, you have no escape route.

He tilts his head back, regarding the piece of prey before him.

“I want you to know,” he says, his words pointed, “that you are a _very_ lucky woman. If it had been any other Jem’Hadar fighter, led by any other of my kind, your life would not have been spared.”

This catches your interest.

The Vorta chuckles, noting how your eyes light up at his implication. “Yes, yes – rather than destroying your escape pod, I showed you a rare and... _generous_ display of mercy.” His voice swells at this as though he is genuinely proud of his own moral fortitude. “Something we Vorta are not particularly known for, as I’m sure you’re aware. So...”

He leans in, bending down to whisper a warning into your ear. His warm breath so close sends a visible shiver down your spine, and when he speaks, you hear not the words of a Vorta but the hiss of a viper.

_“...I intend to collect on the debt which I am now owed.”_

Oh.

_Oh, God._

Everything suddenly becomes clear. But even as your blood runs cold, something deep within you stirs in excitement. Your heart drops down into your stomach as one of his hands reaches up to slip a strap of your nightgown off your shoulder; your cheeks flush warm, and your eyelids flutter shut. You still feel him breathing against your ear.

“There are a few things you should know,” he purrs, allowing his hand to wander up your now exposed shoulder and slide over your neck. He pauses there, feeling the warm rush of blood at your jugular. “Firstly, there is no escape. Even if you manage to harm me in some way or escape these quarters, you will never leave this ship alive.”

You know he’s right.

“Secondly, any attempt to retaliate against me will be _severely_ punished. I have generously provided you with all the creature comforts you could ask for as a prisoner, but life need not be so pleasant in the future.”

You swallow. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your neck.

“And thirdly. If you don’t give me what I want, Miss Y/N...”

He leans back to study you, a smirk stamped across his face, and warily you meet his gaze. The seconds that pass before he growls out the rest of his warning stretch into eternity.

_“...I will take it from you.”_

Before you can react, he smashes into you, pressing your body up against the door and forcing his lips onto yours. You gasp, muffled, into the violent kiss – and grasp at his clothing, half pushing him away, half just trying to steady yourself. But the Vorta is unyielding. The hand at your neck slides around to cup the back of your head, trapping you in the kiss; his other arm snakes around your lower waist, pulling you closer.

Your head swims, and it’s not just due to lack of air. Heat is beginning to blossom deep inside you. It rises to your cheeks, spreads through your bloodstream – and you realize with sudden alarm that you’ve begun to return the Vorta’s passionate kiss.

Against your own will, your hands slide up to his shoulders and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer. Pleased as he is surprised by this development, the Vorta moans a quiet sound of approval into the kiss and hoists you up by the waist, pinning you to the door. You wrap your legs around him for support and squirm to feel the heat radiating between your bodies – between your clothed lower sections.

(Outside, the Jem’Hadar guards shuffle uncomfortably at the sounds emanating from just behind the door.)

A tongue – dextrous and unexpectedly long – slips into your mouth and toys with your own, twisting around it, stroking. The Vorta sighs appreciatively against you as your hands tangle into his hair, grabbing hungry fistfuls. The relative chill of his cool skin against your hot, flushed face is as comforting as it is suffocating, and you struggle to catch your breath.

Soon, enough is enough, and even against his forceful hold you manage to break free and gasp for air. He descends upon your exposed throat like a vulture to a fresh kill, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive skin. His tongue darts out to lick and lap at each spot, and his teeth scrape your skin, teasing, threatening.

“My name, if you were wondering,” he purrs, hastening to get the words out in between kisses, “is Keevan. I expect...to hear you calling it... _many_ times tonight.”

“Keevan,” you try, tasting the name on your tongue – still fresh with the actual taste of the Vorta. Learning his name feels somehow simultaneously like a burden has lifted off your shoulders...and like a rope has tightened around your neck.

“Yes, that’s it,” comes his growled encouragement against your throat, and all higher functions of your brain cease entirely, leaving you with only the desperate, consuming desire to elicit more of that intoxicating praise from your Vorta captor. But before you can make good on that need, your thoughts are cut short; you gasp sharply as Keevan’s teeth sink deep into your shoulder. Sparks fly behind your eyelids at the sudden onset of pain, but even as you try to twist away, Keevan remains upon you, intent on drawing blood. You push at his shoulders uselessly. Fear sprouts up anew, escaping in gasps and whines along with the sounds of your pain as, vampire-like, he sucks the blood from the wound he’s inflicted upon you. After a few moments of struggle, you give up and simply wait for it to be over.

Satisfied finally, he lifts his head to meet your unfocused gaze. You notice a change in those violet eyes, which had so carefully concealed his intent earlier; now, they shine with a barely repressed wildness, something unhinged lurking just below the surface. A drop of your blood shimmers at the corner of his lips and his purplish tongue darts out to lick it away.

He breaks out into a grin upon seeing your frightened expression.

“I didn’t say it would be easy. Repaying your debt, I mean.”

With a gentleness that catches you completely off guard, he lets you back down to your feet and eases off somewhat. His hand slips from your neck and travels down the exposed goosebump-flesh of your arm, then grasps your wrist and pulls it up to his lips. His eyes, trained on yours, keep you paralyzed as he presses long, lascivious kisses along the underside, beginning at the bottom of your forearm and traveling up to just below your palm. His tongue traces the veins there, sending shocks of electricity to your core.

You expect another bite at any moment and tense in preparation for the pain – but it never comes. The smirking Vorta pulls away once he notices the tension in your shoulders beginning to dissipate, and still holding you by the wrist, he leads you away from the door and deeper into his quarters.

For the first time, you get a chance to look around you. Keevan’s quarters are easily double the size of your own, and the room feels spacier, more open. There is a small kitchen by the replicator and a much larger table, able to sit at least eight comfortably. The wall which in your room is occupied by a vast window is instead a mirror in this one, and you realize – feeling a little dumb – that it’s just a variable screen, controlled by a panel on the adjacent wall.

Keevan leads you into the bedroom, where low lilac lighting casts a cool glow across the furniture. You pass an expansive console-desk and a sleek built-in wardrobe on your way to the bed – enormous, soft, and layered with silken black sheets.

You barely have time to take everything in before your attention is dragged back to Keevan, who turns back to face you, excitement glimmering in his eyes. You hardly breathe as he reaches up to your unbruised shoulder, brushing away the one remaining strap of your nightgown. It falls unceremoniously to the floor.

Your upper half suddenly exposed, you reach up reflexively to cover your breasts – but Keevan snatches your hands mid-air and, sneering, forces them to your sides.

“This body of yours,” he explains, impatient at having to waste time on this, “belongs to _me_ now. And whatever I request of it, you _will_ give to me.”

He pauses to take in the sight before him. You squirm a bit as his eyes travel shamelessly up and down your figure, a specimen under his study. One of his hands releases yours (which you ball up and keep firmly at your side) and he brushes the back of his fingers, feather-light, across a perked nipple. You shiver. He sighs – in approval, perhaps, or anticipation. Then his eyes dart back up to meet yours.

“Is that understood?”

You nod. It’s not good enough for him.

Grasping your face, he wrenches your head up to look at him, hovering centimeters above you. Fury contorts his expression into a fearsome grimace.

“I said, _is that understood?”_

“Ye– yes, sir,” you stutter, breathless, and – satisfied – he releases you. But an edge of threat still lingers in his voice.

“Good. Now lie down.”

You give Keevan a sidelong glance as you pass him and proceed to lie back against the plush pillows, somewhat uncertainly draping your arms over your head. He stands at the foot of the bed – regards you for a long moment – and then undoes the clasp securing his jacket and shrugs it off. He moves toward you deliberately, carefully, climbing onto the bed with a guarded but visible hunger.

Frozen with fear and excitement, you watch as he slides his hands up your thighs, enjoying the smooth skin under his palms. Then, grasp suddenly tightening, he forces them apart; you gasp and try to squeeze your knees back together, feeling vulnerable, feeling _shame._ But the Vorta inserts himself between your parted legs, preventing you from doing so.

Your struggling ceases altogether as he presses his cock against your clothed sex.

“What’s the matter?” Keevan sneers, his voice barely above a whisper. You take a shaky breath, mind reeling from the heat and the hardness between your legs, overwhelming even through the layers of fabric between you.

“Afraid? Or…”

He lowers his weight completely onto you, and as he shifts his bulge rubs against your clit through your panties. You arch, just ever so slightly, into the sensation; your hands grasp a fistful of bedsheets. Heat rises to your cheeks as he whispers directly into your ear.

_“Excited?”_

With no warning, he rocks his hips hard into yours – and a cry forces its way out of your throat. As Keevan grinds into you he resumes his attack on your neck, leaving a trail of bruises to blossom beneath his vicious kissing, biting and sucking. The harsh sting of his assault melds seamlessly with the shocks of pleasure that rock you with each movement of his hips against yours, and you writhe beneath him once more – wanton, this time, rather than frightened.

Shifting his weight to one arm, he frees the other to snake in between your bodies and grab one of your breasts, squeezing and massaging and then pausing to tease at your nipple with his fingertips. His lips travel to the other side of your neck and up to your ear, nipping at your earlobe, licking along the outer cartilage. You can hear the change in his breath from earlier; it’s grown quicker, shallower. As you let go of the sheets to slide your hands beneath the hem of his shirt, you hear it hitch.

Keevan makes no motion to stop you as you feel up his smooth chest – only pauses to switch hands and attend your neglected breast. His kisses grow softer, slower as they travel along your jawline, and by the time they press onto your lips you can barely contain from whimpering your impatience into him. His ministrations are having quite an effect on you; you feel warm and slick beneath your panties, and there’s a growing emptiness inside you, a desperate need to be filled.

You slide your hands around to Keevan’s back and – partially in a burst of impish defiance, partially out of impatience – dig your nails in and drag downwards. He jerks back from the kiss to let out a harsh hiss as you scratch him, and for a moment you aren’t sure whether you’re about to be punished or rewarded for the impulse. But the Vorta, collecting himself as your nails come to rest on the small of his back, only looks back to you with a glint in his eyes.

“Naughty girl…” he chides, but nothing about his tone suggests disapproval. Rising, he slips out of your grip and trails his hands along your curves and down your thighs before making their way to the zipper of his trousers.

Biting your lip, you lean up on your elbows to get a better view. Keevan – basking in your undivided attention – makes a show out of undoing his zipper and reaching tantalizingly slowly within to produce his swollen cock.

You gasp at the sight of it. Curved, slender, and bulging with veins, it tapers from a thick base into a concave, purple-tinged tip. Ridges much like the ones on his ears decorate either side. It’s hard to tell with his pants still in the way, but you think you notice the beginning of a slit at its base.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Keevan hums, and you squirm in discomfort as he strokes himself, barely inches from your aching entrance. “How badly do you want it?”

You swallow. You aren’t sure how to answer. But at this point, you’d do anything to get that thing inside you.

“Please,” you beg, uncertain, trying to communicate the depths of your desperation with your eyes as you stare up into his self-satisfied gaze. “Please, I… I _need_ it.”

“Need what?” he asks, as if just coming into the conversation, and his pretend air of nonchalance infuriates you. A smirk tugs at his lips as he watches you struggle to speak.

“Your…”

You close your eyes to block out the distracting sight of him casually stroking himself as he awaits your reply. You take a breath – and swallow your pride.

“...Your cock. Please, Keevan, I – I need it inside me – I need you to _fuck me!”_

It’s all the encouragement he needs.

In a split second, your panties are ripped down off your hips, thrown carelessly aside. The Vorta leans over you with one hand beside your shoulder to steady himself, and with the other he presses the indented tip of his cock into the folds of your labia, dragging it teasingly up and down your anatomy. You twitch and whimper as it presses into your clit – circles around your entrance – and finally slips inside.

You’re so wet, at this point, that the sizable organ slides in to the hilt with zero resistance. In a rare moment of shared weakness you both freeze, shivering, eyes slid shut and lips parted in a (in Keevan’s case, silent) moan. The world seems to hold its very breath as you both adjust to the massive shockwave of pleasure, of filling and being filled, and slowly you open your eyes to gauge one another’s reaction.

Keevan’s expression has drained of all the sardonicism and smugness you’ve come to expect of it, replaced by something animalistic – a naked, ravenous hunger. The sight of it sends chills down your spine. Suddenly you are overcome with clarity, with the reality of your position: you are prey, pinned down, helpless, looking down the open jaws of your killer.

Before the terror can truly sink in, however, you’re ripped from your reverie by the electrifying motion of Keevan’s cock retreating from inside you. He hovers, just a moment, with only the tip submerged – before slamming back in.

You yelp, in surprise and euphoria alike, and encouraged by your helpless sounds the Vorta wastes no time in establishing an already relentless pace. Your legs wrap around him of their own accord, angling your hips to allow him to thrust as deeply inside you as possible – and Keevan groans his gratitude in response. 

Your hands search for something to hold onto and find the Vorta’s forearms; you grasp at the fabric of his sleeves, and then, at his hands clutching the bedsheets. Far from lacing your fingers romantically together, of course, he reacts to your request by snatching your wrist and guiding it under his shirt, to the top of his chest.

Through the harsh pounding of Keevan’s member pumping in and out of you, you can hardly think – so when he presses your fingernails into his skin, it takes you a moment to realize what it is he wants. You comply with enthusiasm.

His head falls forward, tilts away from you. You feel his thrusts start to falter.

“Harder,” he grits out through clenched teeth, and, a bit taken aback (you hadn’t really been going easy on him), you nonetheless acquiesce. Your nails drag down his chest with as much strength as you can muster under the circumstances, leaving what are sure to be long, angry red welts in their wake.

Keevan groans, forgetting himself for just a moment. His movements become stiffer, distracted; he lowers his head to lean against yours for support.

Then, as quickly as it came on, it’s over.

You hear a sharp intake of breath by your ear just before the Vorta pulls himself back up, away from your clawing hands – and then the jarring, sudden sting of a slap across your face momentarily blinds you.

Gasping, you scramble to regain your senses as Keevan retakes control. Leaning back now, he yanks your hips up to his and lets his wandering hands linger on your plump rear before continuing down your legs and finally to your ankles, which he pulls up to rest atop his shoulders. Your eyes travel down to where your bodies meet, where he’s frustratingly ceased his pumping into you, and – squirming, whimpering in need – you glance up with pleading eyes to meet his gaze.

It’s honed on you, waiting. He bores into you with those infuriating violet orbs of his, and you recognize the predatory satisfaction behind them, the gloating, the triumph. He enjoys nothing more in the entire universe than the sight of his prize, his prey beneath him, panting and desperate, entirely at his mercy.

But the stillness is driving you mad. “Keevan…” you beg, your chest heaving, your hips writhing into his. You know nothing you say will dissuade him from doing whatever he pleases, but you hope the sound of his name – salacious, dripping with need – will spur him to action.

It does.

You’re rewarded with the warm, wonderful sensation of being filled over and over once more. Keevan digs his nails into your thighs as he resumes his rapid rhythm; this new angle has him scraping against that perfect, hot-button spot inside of you with every pass, and you gasp for air, helpless against the wanton moans bursting from your lips on every exhale.

About the only thing preventing your eyes from rolling back into your head is the unsuppressable desire to watch your Vorta companion fuck you. For all his composure, Keevan’s mask is beginning to slip, and you note with fascination the purple blush rising to his cheeks. He turns his head to press idle kisses into your ankle as his pace slows, holds there, and then quickens once more; you bite the knuckle of one of your fingers to try to control the growing volume of your moans.

Keevan, upon noticing this, rips your hand away from your mouth and pins it to the mattress. You shrink under his livid gaze as he releases your ankle to grab your face instead, forcing you to look straight at him, to take in every word.

_“Do not...hide...those sounds from me.”_

Even through his shallow panting, the demand rings clear. You nod quickly, swallowing down the sounds stuck in your throat – only to have new ones force their way out as Keevan, steadying himself with one white-knuckled hand on the headboard, slips the other down to your clit. Your legs, now unsupported, slip off his shoulders – but the Vorta is too focused on pleasuring you to notice. Or care.

The combined sensations of Keevan’s cock thrusting in and out of you and his fingertips pressing circles into your clit in rhythm with each thrust are beginning to be too much. Crying out, you fight against the white-hot electricity sparking deep within you, threatening to spill over at any moment. Keevan – noticing the rising inflection of your cries, the arch of your back off the bed, the way your eyes flutter shut – redoubles his efforts, and even through your closed eyes you can _feel_ his voyeuristic stare drilling holes into you as you succumb to the building waves of ecstasy.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a ship being dashed against the rocks. Colors dance behind your eyelids as euphoria wracks your body, heavenly, perfect, and you jerk and moan and arch into your captor – your lover – your master. The squeezing of your muscles around Keevan’s cock still sheathed inside you triggers his own orgasm, and you open your eyes just in time to catch sight of him, his head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in choked ecstasy as his cock pulses inside you – filling you with hot, thick jets of cum.

Time loses meaning as you lie together, recovering. The room fills with the sound of your harsh panting as you both catch your breath, and your head swirls, blissful exhaustion overcoming you. The sheets are suddenly so soft; the thought of sleep, so alluring. But just as you begin to feel darkness tugging at the borders of your consciousness, Keevan stirs above you, bringing you back to reality.

You miss the comforting weight of the Vorta atop you the moment it’s gone. He slips out of you carefully, no doubt as sensitive as you are, and stands – hardly giving you a second glance as he searches for something with which to wipe himself off.

You sit up, one hand holding your head to mitigate the way it swims when you move. Your self-consciousness had somewhat evaporated over the course of your coitus, but it returns now in full force as you stumble back into the real world. Painfully mindful of the sweat glistening on your skin and the fluids that are beginning to leak from you, you clench your thighs together, searching about in a slight panic for your underwear.

Once located, you slip them on and tentatively try to stand. The rough pounding Keevan gave you has left your legs weak and as you take a shaky step toward your nightgown, pooled on the carpet at the foot of the bed, you stumble – and would have fallen, if not for the Vorta who’s suddenly appeared at your side. He steadies you with a hand on the small of your back.

“Watch your step,” he warns, and you’re almost relieved to hear the notes of smug condescension that have slipped back into his voice. Grateful for the assistance but nervous at this return to unfamiliar territory, you hold onto his upper arm for a moment to regain your balance. You offer him a weak smile.

To your slight shock, he returns it. It’s paper-thin, clearly concealing something – some sadistic pleasure, perhaps, at watching you struggle. Nonetheless, he smiles.

“Thanks,” you murmur, trying to break the growing tension, and reluctantly you break away from his touch to don your nightgown.

“My pleasure.”

This gentle treatment baffles you. Is it just another front, ready to be ripped away for dramatic effect? Did your good behavior endear you to him? Or did he just need a lay that badly?

Your mind goes blank as you turn in time to catch Keevan slipping his pleated shirt off over his head. The long, deep welts you left across his torso glimmer under the dim purple lighting, and you stare unabashedly, eyes wide. Streaks of black are smeared over his chest and, glancing down to study your fingernails, you realize with dread that you drew blood.

“My dear…” the Vorta croons, interrupting your transfixion, and this time you refuse to shrink away as he reaches for your face once more. But rather than grasping your cheeks in his hand, he tilts your head up with the gentlest brush of his fingers beneath your chin.

“You did very well.”

The soft bit of praise, horrifyingly, causes your eyes to well up with tears.

In a split second Keevan is gone, slipped away into the ensuite. Through the open door his call echoes: “Have First Algan’tarak escort you back to your quarters. I’ll send for you again sometime _very_ soon.”

You hold yourself tightly, trying to keep it together. You bite back the tears. Realizing your opportunity, your heart suddenly races – your eyes dart around the room, searching for a weapon, something sharp – but the whim dies as soon as you give it even an iota of thought.

You know the only way to survive, from this point forward, is to do as he says.

Hesitant, you take one last look around Keevan’s quarters before proceeding back out to the corridor. With each step, the fear, shock and adrenaline begin to drain out of you. The doors slide open to allow you through and the Jem’Hadar First, already aware of his task, leads you wordlessly back to your room. You notice he avoids eye contact.

Locked safely away in your new prison cell once again, you stand at the entrance for a very long moment. Then, numb, you make your way to the sofa in front of the “window” and sink down into it, staring blankly out at the computer-generated stars zooming past.

You contemplate the reality of your new life.

You wonder if you would have been better off dying with your crew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attend to Keevan while Keevan attends to some work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to tinsnip for the lovely terminology I've borrowed here.

Life is lonely in your cell. You have all the creature comforts you could want; as a prisoner, you’re lucky to be given access to a shower and a replicator, let alone a soft bed and a database full of various forms of entertainment. But after three days, you’d trade every book and film in that library for just an hour of pleasant conversation.

This is why, you tell yourself, you feel strangely giddy the moment your door slides open and a Jem’Hadar instructs you brusquely out.

Butterflies dance in your stomach as you follow him down the corridor, to that waiting set of doors at the end. _Keevan is your captor,_ you think, swallowing down both fear and delight. _Your abuser. You shouldn’t be excited to see him._

And yet you are.

You step into his quarters and the doors lock behind you. To your confusion, Keevan is nowhere in sight – but after a moment he calls out from the adjacent room.

“In here.”

Padding over to his bedroom, you tentatively stick your head inside the doorway. Keevan is seated at his desk, pouring over a schematic that takes up the entire tabletop display – pausing every other moment to rifle through the data padds strewn about and locate some figure or jot down some note. His jacket is open and his face is illuminated from below by the brilliant blue light of the desk’s display, glowing in the otherwise dimly-lit room. After several moments, he speaks without bothering to look away from his work.

“Are you just going to stand there?”

You startle. You thought maybe you’d just been hesitating out of fear but, really, you were admiring the sight. Carefully, you make your way over to Keevan, uncertain what to expect.

As you approach him he sits up, away from his console, and swivels around to face you. His gaze is calculating. He decides, almost immediately, that he doesn’t approve of the robe wrapped around your form and reaches out to casually undo the tie at your waist.

Your face glows hot as the silken fabric falls open, but you fight the urge to cover yourself. Keevan notes this with a faint smile.

“Good girl,” he hums, one hand sliding onto your waist and parting the robe further. “You’re learning.”

You fidget nervously as his eyes roam up and down your figure. He regards you the way one would a meal they’ve just been served; he’s waited for this, and he’s going to take his time enjoying it.

His hand lingers at your side before drawing back entirely. You give Keevan an inquisitive look as he leans back in his chair; a smirk plays at the corners of his lips as he clarifies what it is he wants.

“On your knees.”

And he gestures, with a flick of his eyes and a tilt of his head, to the space beneath his desk.

“There.”

You have no choice but to comply. You’re as much a slave to Keevan as to your own desire; your body nearly acts of its own will as you slide between his parted thighs to settle, on your knees, under his desk. His head follows you through the motions as you hang onto that burning eye contact, and when you tentatively reach up to place your hands on his knees, he rewards you with a faint smirk.

“I trust,” he sighs, the edge of a warning creeping into his voice, “you won’t do anything stupid while you’re down there.”

He knows he’s placing a sensitive part of his anatomy in a rather vulnerable position. You’d be surprised at the confidence of such a move if you weren’t acutely aware that any assault on your part would result in your imminent death.

“I won’t,” you assure.

“Good.”

And he leans forward in his seat to resume his work.

You’re a bit put off; there’s something unsettling about being summoned to simply _attend_ Keevan while he works, in contrast to the passionate tryst you previously shared. At least then you had been partly on the receiving end of the attention. But you aren’t about to voice your complaints now. Clenching your jaw, you focus on the task at hand.

Your hands slide up Keevan’s slender legs, trailing across the delicately-patterned fabric. You allow them to approach the very tops of his thighs before drawing back, retreating to his knees in a lazy, repetitive pattern. Eventually you lean forward to rest your face against one knee, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of it, and your hands descend a bit lower, toward the inside of his thighs. He parts his legs a hair further apart as you press your palms over the very highest part of his inner thighs, just below his groin, and for a moment you focus your touches there, lightly massaging the sensitive area.

Keevan shifts in his seat. You smile against his knee and begin to trail kisses up his thigh, taking your sweet time. It has the desired effect; by the time your hand wanders up to the bulge between his thighs, it’s evident he’s enjoyed your teasing.

If he responds at all to you pressing and rubbing your palm into his bulge, you don’t notice it. You hear him working away up there without so much as slowing his pace. But his cock only grows harder under your ministrations, and you venture your kisses further upward until your cheek brushes against the firm bulge.

You play with his zipper for a minute, hoping to wheedle some sound of impatience out of him, but Keevan is impassive and finally you give in and get on with it. From this position, his trousers would be in the way unless you removed them entirely, so you tug them down off his hips – and to your surprise he allows you, shifting his hips up out of his seat to aid in your efforts. The obstacle removed, you sit back on your heels to get a better look.

It’s dim beneath the desk, but up close you notice more detail than last time. The slit at the tip of his cock sits well within the concave indent, which comes to a rounded point and bulges slightly outward. On the lateral sides, smaller, smoother ridges then the ones near the base bridge the transition where the blushing head fades into the shaft. And, you note with curiosity, that _was_ a slit you noticed beneath his cock last time; where the testes of a human male would lie, Keevan sports a pair of smooth outer lips like your own, parted by a single neat split down the middle.

You start first on the shaft. Closing a thumb and forefinger around it, you squeeze and stroke gently, easing him into the feeling. You pause for a moment to let your thumb drift over the indented tip and rub circles around it, and from above you think you hear the sound of a sigh. Encouraging.

Your lips close around the head as your hand retreats downward, holding the organ steady as you begin to taste him in earnest. Your tongue replicates the motions of your thumb, swirling around the tip and flicking at the sensitive slit; then, withdrawing, you press it flat against the root and drag upwards, licking a long, slow stripe up the underside.

Keevan doesn’t respond, but his cock does throb almost imperceptibly under your palm, and smirking, you stroke it a little more fervently. While your hand attends the shaft, you press a lingering, wet kiss to the tip before taking it inside your mouth once more. This time, you don’t restrict yourself to just the head; after a moment of teasing at the soft ridges, you take his cock as far into your mouth as it will go, surrounding it in warm, wet heat.

To your delight, Keevan sighs a long, measured exhale through his nostrils, and moments later there’s a hand snaking into your hair. You half-expect him to yank at it and force you to take him deeper, but it simply twists into the strands at the back of your head and holds there, following the gentle bobs of your head as you find your rhythm.

His taste is unlike that of a human; it’s far less strong and lacks the salty-copper zing of sweaty skin. There’s still something decidedly metallic there, a sharp undertone beneath the faint, almost sweet taste, and you find yourself moaning in pleasant surprise as you lick and lap at him. Your hand strokes the length you can’t reach with your mouth – and then tightens and pumps him as you briefly pick up the pace, only to return moments later to the slower, more soothing ministrations. If his hand tightening in your hair is anything to go by, it’s driving Keevan mad.

The chime of an incoming transmission suddenly interrupts your concentration.

Surely, you think, he’s not going to answer it at a time like this. But as the hand in your hair gives a firm, warning tug and then withdraws, you realize two things: one, that he is in fact going to answer, and two, that he’s just told you to _be quiet._

Pulling slightly back, you swallow. Your ears strain to catch snippets of the low conversation while you work at Keevan’s ridges with your fingers.

“Yes, Kilana,” you hear, and his voice is perfectly even, if a bit annoyed – though that’s nothing out of the ordinary. “Bit late for a call. What can I do for you?”

A sharp, feminine voice replies. She sounds equally irritated.

“Sorry about the time. The subject matter was urgent. I’m just calling to inform you of a little _problem_ that might find its way into your sector at some point within the near future.”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

The smug calmness of his voice frustrates you. It’s as if you aren’t even down here with his cock in your mouth.

Determined to chip at that infuriatingly unaffected veneer, you refocus your efforts. Your mouth pops off from the tip to press long, lascivious kisses up the sides of his shaft, and your tongue eagerly explores the bumps and valleys of the ridges there. You work the tip with your thumb, spreading the droplets of precum that have already started to bead at the slit. Snippets of conversation fade in and out of your attention.

“...let him have the ship. We didn’t think they’d be able to return it to operation, but the Federation continues to surprise us…”

You close your lips around him once more, sliding down as slowly as you possibly can. Breathing measuredly through your nose, you struggle to take in as much of his length as possible – and manage most of it. You linger there, listening for any signs – a change in his breathing, a distractedness to his words – but that Vorta woman is still talking.

“...spotted near the Ketracel-White facility there. If you could limit your patrol to that subsection, we’d be _most_ gratified.”

 _Are all Vorta this sarcastic, all the time?_ you wonder. As Keevan starts to reply, you pull your head back up, sucking along his length, tongue trailing in your wake – then lunge back down and swallow him entirely, repeating the motion again and again with relentless speed. Your hand tightens into a fist around him and follows each bob of your head, stimulating the length alongside your mouth.

“I’ll set a course–”

He halts as you begin your attack, just for a split second, and then slides right into the next word smoothly.

“–posthaste. Will that be all?”

“Actually, one more thing,” quips Kilana, and you can feel the frustration in Keevan’s body language as he leans back in his seat. The angle tilts his hips forward toward you, and a wicked idea takes hold in your mind.

As Kilana chatters away, you drag your free hand along Keevan’s inner thigh and impishly brush your fingers across the soft outer lips below his cock. Then, moving quickly before your resolve can waver, you press a fingertip within the smooth folds; you’re a little surprised to find the interior cavern slick and elastic, and your finger slides up to the first knuckle easily.

There’s no sign of protest, so you press forward cautiously. His _ajan,_ as you would later learn it to be called, accepts the entirety of your finger with no resistance; you pull it back and add a second before thrusting them both in.

Keevan’s hips jolt.

The cock in your mouth prevents you from smiling, so you show your appreciation by pausing at the nadir of your arc and lapping at the underside of the organ while your fingers flex within him. You’re searching – wondering if there’s a button in there like those of your human lovers past – and, after some eager exploration, you find it.

It’s difficult to hear over Kilana’s voice, but you catch the distinct sound of Keevan’s breath hitching. And as you rub back and forth over the denser spot of flesh inside him, his cock twitches in your mouth and his hips lean just _ever_ so slightly forward.

Taking the hint, you inhale a deep preparatory breath and begin to slide up and down his cock once more while your fingers thrust in and out of him in time, curling so as to drag against that sweet spot within him on every motion. The taste of precum is stronger in your mouth now, and you notice your fingers growing slicker with lubrication on every thrust. You decide to pick up the pace; adding a third digit, you swallow around him and finger him wildly, and to your delight he actually begins to _squirm_ under your ministrations, his hips rocking back and forth with every thrust.

The sound of his voice catches your attention. It’s level, but lower, and there’s a breathiness to it that wasn’t present before.

“I understand. You’ll have the report by next week. Now, if that’s all…”

There’s a long silence, and realizing you’re making some small level of noise down here, you pause. Keevan’s cock inadvertently slips out of your mouth with a soft ‘pop,’ and you massage the hot-button within his _ajan_ by way of apology.

“...Is something wrong, Keevan?” asks Kilana, and you can practically hear from her voice how she’s narrowed her eyes, searching for the cause of his off behavior.

He pretends to be ignorant. “Wrong?”

“Yes. You seem rather impatient.”

“I was in the middle of working,” he clarifies, and his nonchalance seems to convince her.

“Late night. Well, no, there’s nothing else. I’ll let you get back to it.”

The comm-link clicks off. A moment later, Keevan’s hand is around the lapel of your robe and he’s yanking you up off your knees.

You barely have time to yelp your surprise before being spun around and thrust forward over the flat expanse of the desk; data padds go clattering to the floor as Keevan rips off your robe and presses you into the cold glass with one hand between your shoulder blades and the other on your hip. You want to twist around, to see the blush you’re sure will be coloring his face and ears, but he pins you fast and his cock presses up against your backside, impatient, threatening.

You want to protest, to demand some attention first before he simply shoves himself in, but Keevan doesn’t give you the chance. A choked cry catches in your throat as he invades you – it stings, it soothes, it hurts, it feels _good._ He spreads your tight walls taut, and though you’re slick with desire you tremble at the thought of having to take all of him at once.

“Keevan–” you gasp, pain choking your thoughts, but he responds to your plea by shifting the hand on your back up to your neck and leaning the brunt of his weight upon it. Struggling, you gasp and grasp at the desktop, bracing yourself as Keevan drives the rest of his length into you; sparks blossom behind your eyelids, your body tenses and jerks, you claw at the console–

And then, behind the pain, something else. Something more. He fucks you with wild abandon, wanton in his need, and as his cock fills you over and over your gasps begin to turn into whimpers and your whimpers into moans. You feel as though your loins are on fire between the agony and the pleasure, but the former is quickly giving way to the latter – especially as you hear the ragged panting and groaning behind you, as you feel the hands on your body tightening their grip to the point of leaving bruises.

The console below you emits random _beeps_ and _boops_ as the rocking motion of your body activates various buttons on the terminal, muddling his intricate schematics. Keevan doesn’t care. He’s found all he needs here, within you, inside your divine warmth and wetness. He gorges himself on you, slows his pace and picks it back up as suits him, indulges every whim to stab in deep or submerge and gyrate inside you. Helpless under his ministrations, you can only cry out and arch and writhe beneath him, your head swimming, your legs buckling.

And then, suddenly, he yanks himself out of you. Before you can so much as form the thought of a complaint he wrenches you over by your hips, flipping you onto your back and grasping the underside of your thighs – and then he’s inside you again, pounding away, jerking your body in rhythm with his voracious thrusts.

Finally able to see your abuser, you practically moan just at the sight. His eyes are alight with a deep, ravenous hunger, glowing faintly with the reflection of the cyan light beneath. A sneer plays at his upper lip and lilac tinges his cheeks and the ridges of his ears. You lower your gaze down across your naked body to the spot where he’s fucking you without mercy, and as he follows your gaze there, you hear a soft snicker from above.

“How – thoughtless of me,” he grunts, and you glance up sharply at his breathless words, uttered between a set of especially harsh thrusts. “Allow me – to – _assist.”_

And his hand slides down your thigh to reach your sex.

Between the double stimulation of his rampant fucking into you and his palm massaging at your clit, you see stars. You’re barely aware of Keevan’s increasingly urgent gasps and moans behind your own needy sounds; reaching for something, _anything_ to hold onto as the euphoric pressure within begins to rapidly spike, you hang on to the edge of the desk as you twist and writhe and swear and convulse around Keevan with the overwhelming waves of ecstasy now crashing down upon you.

His goal achieved, Keevan finally allows himself to fall over the edge as well, his body lowering flush to yours as he does. His hips jerk but his cock stays submerged within you and you feel as it throbs and pulses with each surge of cum, filling you with warmth; his face turns into your neck, burying his wanton noises there on every exhale, and he lies atop you as the orgasm fades, both of you twitching with aftershocks and panting raggedly.

Keevan is, of course, the first to move. Drawing a deep breath, he presses a hand to the glass desktop and pushes himself up, sliding out from inside you in the same motion. An involuntary mewl escapes your lips – you’re hypersensitive and, frankly, torn to shreds. Now that the bliss of your orgasm is wearing off you can feel a throbbing ache beginning to take its place, and your thighs clench together automatically in response to the harsh stinging sensation left in Keevan’s wake.

After a few moments, you’re brought back to reality by the soft sound of Keevan’s voice.

“My dear.”

His pet name for you, apparently. As much as you feel you should be revolted, it only causes your cheeks to flush warmer than they already are. Lifting your head, you see Keevan standing before you, offering a hand.

“Do you plan on short-circuiting my console with the fruits of our labor, or were you going to get up anytime soon?”

“Oh!”

Jumping up – and wincing at the sudden motion – you take the outstretched hand, which Keevan uses to twirl you and pull you into his grasp. Caught off-guard, you gasp; with his chest suddenly flush against your back and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, you find yourself holding your breath involuntarily, equal parts fearful and captivated at the sudden intimacy. He leans down to murmur into your ear, and as he does his lips move against the cartilage, sending shocks down your spine.

“You did so well tonight,” he whispers, and his warm breath against your ear keeps you frozen as one of his hands descends between your thighs. He eases them apart and swipes at the stickiness coating your cunt, causing you to jump slightly – and then he raises his hand to the light to show the glimmering smears of liquid on his fingertips, a mixture of both of your fluids but unmistakably tinged with crimson streaks of blood. His eyebrows raise as he speaks again, his voice lilted and mock-lamenting.

“And look how I’ve repaid you.”

You gape, utterly lost on how to respond. But after a moment Keevan simply chuckles and leans up away from your ear, adding quietly: “I’ll just have to make up for it sometime, won’t I?”

His arms release their hold on you and he slips away; as you face him, you meet his eyes for one lingering, electric moment before he turns away to tend himself. As before, you’re left naked and trembling, and you hurriedly pick up and don the discarded robe.

As you’re tying the knot at your waist, Keeven steps back into your field of vision, having shed the rest of his clothing. You pause in momentary shyness as you notice this but hardly have the time to process the irony of such a feeling as he reaches, gently, for one of your hands. You watch its progress as he brings it up to his lips, and shivers creep down your spine as he presses a long, avaricious kiss to your knuckles, allowing his lips to linger for a timeless few moments. You’re paralyzed under his violet gaze; silence stretches between you like a weight on your chest before, finally, he breaks it.

“Until next time,” he says with a tilt of the head and a duplicitous smile, and his eyes follow you unblinkingly as you slip your hand from his grasp and reluctantly turn to head back to your quarters.


End file.
